


I Follow Just to Find You

by synthbright



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29449941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synthbright/pseuds/synthbright
Summary: Post season two. Din adjusts to a life in hiding without the child and without his armor, but many are searching for him, and he can’t stay hidden in his own skin forever...
Comments: 28
Kudos: 82





	1. Prologue

Din Djarin slips through a bamboo forest on Corulag.

Barefoot and barefaced, he carries a mesh sack filled with the beskar armor that he once wore, beskar spear in one hand as a makeshift walking stick, and dressed in nondescript clothes. Although Din is uncertain of the exact location he seeks, he can almost sense that he is getting closer with each step on the dirt road. Around him, the firm green stalks tower and arch in criss-cross patterns that block out the blue heavens, creating a canopy of endless leaves, like an inverted meadow in the sky that gives Djarin a subtle vertigo. Warm breezes push at his back, almost guiding him. He hasn’t seen another living creature since his transport docked on the continent of South Kallis, but that doesn’t dissuade him. 

Djarin knows the Armorer purposefully chose a remote location to meet.

Twenty minutes later, Din spies a small, unassuming hut off the side of the road, and he picks up his pace. The armor on his back rattles with the movement. Soon, he finds himself at the round and welcoming door. 

He takes a sip of breath and knocks.

Something shuffles inside, and the door opens, revealing the Armorer, with her catlike golden helmet and rust-colored cuirass. She stands tall and silent, at once enigmatic and formidable.

Din gulps, still not used to greeting people in the eye without his armor. For a brief moment, he’s frozen, unable to initiate a response without self-critiquing his own facial expressions. He longs to be as unreadable as the Armorer, and Din feels a pang of loss for his helmet, for its protection and anonymity. Instead, he bows his head with respect.

“Come in,” she says crisply.

The Armorer closes the door behind him as he shambles forward. Despite the humidity outside, the hut is cool and smells of the lingering spices of cooking, with a few windows open on the opposite side, bamboo framing the view. Although small, the hut is large enough to contain a few simple wooden chairs and table, kitchen, and another room that Din supposes is a bedroom. 

“Would you like some tea and something to eat?” she asks, indicating a chair.

“No, thank you,” Djarin says, despite his dry throat and empty stomach.

The Armorer’s helmet tilts down at the floor.

“What happened to your shoes?”

Din removes the mesh sack from his shoulders, props the spear against the wall behind him, and slides into a chair, shrugging. “It’s not important.” 

“Your eyes say differently,” she says, so Din looks away. He already feels raw; not only is his face exposed for others to gaze upon, but the knicks and blisters on his heels sting from walking miles without cover. 

When he looks up, the Armorer returns with a tray--an assortment of dried fruit and nuts, a bowl of stew, a teapot, and two cups. She pours the steaming tea, fragrant with ginger, then sits across from him, hands folded patiently. Behind her, Djarin spies an exquisite sword mounted on the wall. Its golden hilt holds a single blood-red gem, and its blade glints menacingly.

“Thank you,” he murmurs again, but he still doesn’t touch the tea.

“Tell me why you are here,” she says.

Din’s mouth opens as if to speak, then he motions to the mesh bag where his beskar armor sits unused. He thinks his reason for coming would have been obvious.

The Armorer leans forward, the fur bristling along her neck. “Tell me what happened to the foundling.”

Din Djarin immediately feels his world dissolving, as if his real face is a mask with a single chip in it, and that chip becomes a bigger crack that threatens to unravel his deepest unspoken feelings. A spike of pain at the memories of saying goodbye to the child shoots from his temple to his palms to his chest. Din’s vision blurs with unshed tears, and he runs a shaky hand across his face, telling himself that he’s just exhausted. _That’s all this is. Just tiredness._

He doesn’t see her place the cup in his hands, but it’s there when he opens his eyes, warm and comforting.

“Drink,” she says, “and tell me.”

So he does.

* * *

By the time he’s finished telling the Armorer what happened on Moff Gideon’s cruiser, Din has drained two cups of tea and eaten a handful of morsels from the tray. He still feels uncomfortable eating in front of others, but hunger supersedes his fears. Once finished, he expects the Armorer to speak, but she remains taciturn, staring at him intently.

Din knees knock together when his hands raise the mesh bag, silver beskar gleaming with a glint of its past glory. He holds it out and speaks solemnly.

“I have violated the Way of the Mandalore by removing my helmet in front of others. I revoke my armor, my title…” His voice grows husky. “...and my clan.”

The Armorer doesn’t move.

Din continues. “Therefore, I return the armor to its maker and am prepared to face the penalty for my transgressions.” He can’t help but glance at the immaculate sword on the wall behind the Armorer, and a shiver runs through him.

The Armorer takes her time sipping from her cup of tea by lifting up her helmet slightly and placing it back down when she’s finished. Then she says, “No.”

Djarin almost drops the beskar armor. “What?”

“I said no.”

Din reels and rubs his eyes. “I… I don’t understand.”

The Armorer presses gloved hands together, as if contemplating her response. “What did you do with the Darksaber?”

Djarin pauses, confused. He has already relayed what happened. “I left it behind with Bo-Katan.”

“Why?”

“Because it didn’t belong to me.”

"That is why I will not take your armor. It belongs to no one but you.”

The beginning of a headache wraps around his skull. He thought he knew how this meeting was going to go, but the complete opposite is happening. “I still don’t understand. How can I keep the armor when I broke the Creed?” 

“Did you think the punishment for removing your helmet would be a swift death by that sword?” She nods at the weapon on the wall behind her. “Whether you choose to wear the mantle of the Mandalore or not, only _you_ can make that decision.” The Armorer tilts her head, then looks away, her voice growing softer. “A true Mandalorian is more than a fine set of armor, Din Djarin. You have a responsibility to your clan.”

“But I am no longer a clan of two,” Din says, his voice breaking despite himself. “The child returned to its kind. My oath to be his father was fulfilled.”

“Do you still consider the foundling your child?”

With no hesitation, Din says, “Yes.”

 _If Grogu ever came back_ , he thinks, _I would welcome him and give him all that I possessed._

The Armorer stands and places a soft hand on his shoulder. “That is my answer. Eat more and rest here for the night. This is the way.”

Din responds with silence.

Then she bows her head, and opens the front door of the hut, closing it softly behind her. 

Din Djarin sits in silence for some time, partly shocked, partly relieved, and somehow disappointed. He expected admonishment, punishment, but his armor remains packed up next to him. He taps it with a fingernail and listens to its satisfying _clink_.

As he sits in the rustic chair and stares at the dregs of his tea, Din is filled with an overwhelming emptiness. What does it matter if he retains the armor or not? What is the point of _anything_ without the child?

He eats a few mouthfuls of lukewarm stew, and then a few more, still hungry and weary. Din winces at the sorry state of his feet and tenderly runs his hand over the cuts in his soles. He thinks about getting up and finding a washbasin to attack the layer of grime on his skin that had built over the past few days since he had departed from Nevarro, but he sits back instead, head hazy with sleep.

“Mother, father, Aiku, Trench,” he says softly to himself. The words have an instantly calming and grounding effect on him, for he had spoken them thousands of nights before.

Din closes his eyes and falls asleep.

* * *

_He watched the Child being carried away by the Jedi in the cloak, followed by the droid, and he couldn’t breathe. The dark trooper’s attack had left him with a ringing headache and soreness all over his body, but now he felt nothing._

_"Mando!”_

_Din never had time to turn around before he heard the blaster fire. He flinched, anticipating the searing white heat or darkness, but he remained untouched. Electricity crackled in the air. He slowly turned around and saw a surprising sight: Cara Dune and Fennec with blasters aimed, Bo-Katan and Koska lying motionless on the floor of the cruiser._

_He must have looked at Cara with a question in his eyes because she said, “They tried to come after you.”_

_Djarin stepped forward, examining the still bodies, still holding his breath._

_"Don’t worry--they’re just stunned.”_

_Din took the Darksaber and placed it on the floor beside Bo-Katan’s limp hand._

_He felt numb when he faced Cara, helmetless for the first time. “Let’s go…”_

_Cara’s eyes softened. She lowered her blaster and exchanged glances with Fennec. “What if she comes after you?”_

_Djarin was certain the Nite Owl would. “Then we get a headstart.”_

* * *

Din wakes in the same position in which he had fallen asleep. The key difference is the dark green blanket covering him. He sits slowly, joints popping, grimacing at the lingering soreness in his limbs, but he feels rested. In that moment, Din realizes he has gotten more sleep in the Armorer’s hut than any time since…

_Since Grogu left._

He neatly folds the blanket and places it in the chair, picking up his armor, and nearly tripping over the pair of brand new long boots at his feet. They are sturdy, with extra cushion on the inside. A handwritten note sits on the vamps:

_Thought you might need these on your journey._

He slowly slips them on, wincing at the not-quite-healed wounds on his feet, but feeling immediate comfort. The boots fit perfectly. Din is about to leave when he catches movement out of one of the windows toward the back of the hut. He walks closer and watches the Armorer practicing various defensive and offensive maneuvers, surrounded by the swooning green bamboo trees. She clutches the sword that had been hanging on the wall, wielding it skillfully. Like a game mixed with a dance, she moves smoothly and soundlessly.

Djarin finds a nub of pencil and writes _Thank you_ beneath the note she had left him. Then he takes the beskar spear from where it leans against the wall and sets it beside the note. It seems a fair trade--one beskar spear for a pair of decent boots.

Din leaves the Armorer’s hut and continues on the dirt road, back where he had come from.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first ever post on this site! Super excited! This chapter was inspired by "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon."


	2. Chapter 2

Rain pours down in sheets, mixing with a gale that tosses his dark brown hair into his eyes. A few months ago, Din gave up on wearing a hood due to the perpetual wind and warnings from fellow nerf herders--even if a hood is tightly cinched to your scalp, water will still slice into your eyes, trickle down your neck, and find its way into your ear canals.

There is a reason why nerf herding on Eadu is sometimes called “cattle swimming.”

Din has been nudging the herd toward a gated ranch for the night. Despite torrential downpours, the nerfs are moody and obstinate this evening, reluctant to place a hoof past the stretch of fresh grass beneath them.

He hears a faint whistle above the howling wind and waves to his herding partner, Druil. The Vindalian’s slender form in the distance shimmers through the downpour, his bright crimson rain garb shining like a beacon from the light emitted by his walking staff. Din raises his own metallic torchstaff to encourage a nerf youngling to rejoin the pack when his boots hit something slick. Djarin grunts as his ankle rolls with the object but is able to keep his feet thanks to the balance the staff affords him.

Wiping rain water out of his line of sight is a pointless pursuit, but Djarin does it out of habit as he crouches to investigate the cause of his near-downfall. Partially buried under a mound of dirt lies a globular silver trinket no wider than a man’s palm. He digs it out of the muck, wiping it off on the front of his jacket until it shines. Rain water ricochets off its gleaming surface, seemingly impervious to the elements, and Din squints through the sluice of water running down his face.

_What could it be?_

Too lightweight for a detonator. 

Another shrill whistle carries on the breeze just as lightning splits the sky and temporarily illuminates the terrain as if it’s daylight--the only “daylight” they will ever see on Eadu. Din has become accustomed to waking up to darkness and working in darkness.

Djarin tosses the ball in the air, catches it, and pockets it before finishing his duties.

* * *

Druil has already prepared a makeshift camp by the nerf pens. Din peels off his outer rainproof clothing before stepping inside the dark blue tent. Although his regular clothes are still damp, they are not dripping wet. The day has been a relatively “dry” one on Eadu, probably averaging only an inch or two of rainfall. He lugs a knapsack inside the tent; the knapsack contains his only possessions in the galaxy.

The Vindalian’s back is to him when he enters, so Din sets his torchstaff on the rocky ground and begins unrolling his sleeping bag. Then he changes into fresh clothes and ties twine to opposing hooks to hang up his damp ones. 

Druil has already activated a handful of heat packs, so Din settles beside them, stretching his calloused hands above the packs to allow the warmth to seep through his half-frozen limbs while the Vindalian de-thaws their rations. 

Outside, the wind moans, and rain batters the sides of the tent, but after ten months on Eadu, Din is able to ignore the tempest as background noise. He’s more attuned to the body language of his herding partner: the way Druil hums as he works and pauses to preen his whiskers, flicking away excess rainwater that builds up in his fur. Although human in most features, Vindalians hold distinctive fox-like facial features. Din feels guilty for initially distrusting Druil due to his crafty appearance, but it only took a matter of minutes of communicating with the Vindalian that Din knew he could trust him. After his experience with IG-11, Djarin has learned his lesson about judging others.

Druil is a hard and honest worker, keeps to himself, and cooks flavorful meals. For Din, he has been the perfect herding partner.

Djarin makes a gesture of thanks when Druil hands him a bowl of steaming food-- veg-meat over Kodari rice and a shareable bag of chipitas--and he begins to eat.

_What took you so long?_ Druil signs to him, his smile teasing, as he pours cups of tea, tendrils of minty steam rising up to fill the tent.

Din nearly forgot about the glossy cylindrical object and ducks outside to fetch it from his discarded waterproof clothes. But when he reaches his hand in the jacket pocket, he grabs a different object.

It’s similar in color and shape, metallic and round, but it’s somewhat smaller than the object he found in the field, and Din freezes.

It’s the top of a controller, the only piece he has left from the _Razor Crest_ , and the only object he owns that specifically reminds him of the child.

Druil signs something in his peripheral vision, but Din doesn't fully turn to see. Rain continues to fall, soaking his once-dry clothes, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes burn as memories flood back to him, memories of traveling with Grogu, caring for him, being a father…

A hand brushes his arm, and he recoils, catching the dark, concerned eyes of Druil.

_Are you well?_ the Vindalian signs.

Din manages to nod, swallowing hard. 

_Come out of the rain,_ Druil signs.

He removes the object he tripped over in the field from his rain gear and swiftly steps back inside. Din locates his leather knapsack and places the piece of controller inside, beside his hidden beskar armor. Then he hands the unknown object to Druil.

The Vindalian rolls it between his palms, examining it as Djarin had. He scratches his whiskers.

Din returns to his food and signs, _Do you know what it is?_

Druil shakes his furry head and shrugs. _Garbage?_

* * *

After supper, Din and Druil sit around the heat packs, soaking in their warmth. Druil pulls out a piece of scrap wood and a pocket knife and begins his nightly routine of carving detailed figures. Sometimes he sculpts a nerf, sometimes he chisels a person. Din assumes that the Vindalian sells them every time they visit a larger village because he never sees the carvings again.

Din investigates the sterling object. This time, he finds small horizontal ridges that don’t quite reach its full circumference. He rubs his thumb across them, and that’s when the object jumps in his hand.

He swears as the object lands on the ground, and Druil looks up from his woodwork just in time to see a holographic figure emit from the silver sphere. No bigger than a foot tall, the ghostly image of a woman in a gray robe floats in the air. A shawl covers half her face, but long dark brown hair slides down one shoulder, and her single brown eye stares through him, the silver strand of a necklace strewn around her neck. She briefly touches it then begins to speak:

“Sometimes I stand out

In the rain, in the darkness

Just searching for him.

“Do you ever feel

A loneliness so great that

You can’t catch your breath?

“I have lived alone

For so long that I don’t hear

The storms anymore.”

The hologram fizzles, and the mysterious woman disappears.

Din’s heart pounds in his chest, threatening to flip flop out of it altogether, but a movement out of the corner of his eye draws his attention back to his herding partner.

_She’s pretty_ , Druil signs, amusement gleaming through a toothy grin. _What did she say?_

Djarin signs back to him, translating the Basic.

Druil contemplates the message. _Part of a holovid?_

Djarin’s shoulders move up and down. The gadget could have been broken, but something about the honesty within the woman’s voice speaks to a different intention.

Wrapped in his sleeping bag that night, Din huffs, trying to clear his thoughts to prepare for his nightly ritual. 

“Mother, father, Aiku, Trench,” he whispers. Druil has probably heard him speak the titles and names at some point during the months they have spent together, but he has never mentioned it.

Din falls asleep listening to the rain patter endlessly on the tent roof, the hologram’s words echoing in his mind.

* * *

The next time he finds a hologram, it’s midday. The wind does more to drive the herd than Djarin’s staff ever will, but he still wishes the big lugs would pick up their hooves for a change. He and Druil work in a rare hurry; raiders have been spotted several kilometers away, and though this particular band of thieves are not known for stealing cattle, nerf herders avoid them at any cost. Druil has a blaster, but Din is loath to unpack his armor unless the situation becomes desperate. 

Din whistles at the pack, raising his staff for protection as he walks among them. And that’s when a flash of silver, contrasting against the rocky terrain, catches his eye. It rolls like a tiny wheel, the force of the planet’s gales keeping it in perpetual motion.

Djarin immediately dives to catch it, plucking the glittery sphere from the wet rocks in a breathless gesture.

It looks the same as the one he had previously found, with the same ridges slicing into its smooth surface. Looking around to make sure that Druil is out of sight, Din rubs the uneven lines and feels a spark of wonder as the figure appears in the air across from him, the same mysterious woman cloaked in gray gauze, her lovely dark brown face and eyes partially obscured. She speaks quietly in verse, contemplative:

“What is beautiful?

My son, my daughter, yes

Memories of him

And I remember

Many marvelous times of

Laughing together

Holding hands and peace

Quiet rainfall and wanting

My love’s warm embrace”

For a brief moment, it’s as if the constant thunder clap on Eadu has ceased, the clouds have rolled back, and the far-away sun has come out, shining down on him. Then the image of her flickers away, and Din’s heart jumpstarts. He looks up and realizes that the herd has moved on without him. He curses himself, pockets the hologram, grabs his staff, and sprints to catch up with his shaggy consorts.

* * *

Din discovers two more holograms scattered across the landscape in the following days, but he doesn’t share them with Druil. It’s a strange secret to keep, considering that he has never told Druil about his past life, but Djarin thinks it’s necessary. He connects to this woman; her words evoke a deep longing and sadness that mirrors his own feelings and that he had not acknowledged until he heard her speak. Her soulful verses express pain and truth, and listening to her is a balm to his grief and isolation. He is finally ready to explore these feelings with himself, but Din is not yet ready to be vulnerable in front of the Vindalian.

* * *

On one cold early evening, the rain suffocates Djarin. The downpour has not let up for twenty-four hours. Rain bounces off the tip of his nose and washes into his eyes, making them sting. Not an inch of his body has escaped the moisture. He can’t wait for Druil to find a suitable spot to set up camp so he can dry out.

The Vindalian stays closer to him than usual due to the lousy visibility. Half a mile out from their destination, they come across a small gray home built into the side of a steep hill, with four solid walls and durable gray shingles on its roof, an uncommon sight amongst the traditional huts of many nerf herders on Eadu. Without the bright yellow glow of an oil lamp winking at him from inside one window, Din might have not noticed the house was there, so cleverly it is camouflaged in its environment.

Druil touches his arm and signs. _Supposed to belong to a family. Want to check on them?_

Din bobs his head, and the herders leave their nerfs to contentedly graze while they climb the sharp incline, rain drilling into their skulls until they reach the house’s overhang. Druil knocks politely on the door. Djarin expects a couple of nerf herders or elderly Eaduans to greet them. He’s _not_ expecting the woman in gray from the holograms to appear as the door opens. 

She looks exactly the same as her miniature version, projected into his palm, ethereal in flowing robes. A translucent ashen fabric runs across the right side of her face, obscuring it from view. Her voice is soft, yet pragmatic and to the point. 

“What can I do for you?”

“We…” Djarin loses his voice. “We’re just passing by with a herd and wanted to check on you.”

She smiles, creasing her eyes, warm and genuine. “Thank you for the thought.” Her eye strays behind him. “It’s treacherous out there. Would you and your partner care to stay here for the night?”

The Vindalian’s bushy eyebrows quirk up and Din translates for him.

Druil grins and signs back. _Better than a tent._

Din has to agree with him; the warmth of the real fire inside the house entices.

So the herders trudge back down the hill and through the storm to the gated pen, wrangle the last nerf stragglers inside, and lock it securely behind them. Then Din and the Vindalian plod back to the house on the hill with the light inside. 

Druil signs with him as they lumber on. _She’s the lady from your hologram._

Din nods. 

Druil beams, scratching his russet-colored whiskers. _Very interesting,_ he teases.

The Vindalian knocks on the front door of the cabin again, and the woman answers like before, beckoning them inside. 

The inside of her house is plain, with a rustic dinner table, fireplace, and washbasin in a corner. The woman stands by the fire, stirring something fragrant and delicious in a large pot. Din and Druil immediately strip their outer layers off, shivering from the lingering effects of the frigid temperature outside. 

“Maris,” she calls.

“Yes, mama?” A male youngling of about seven or eight appears from another room. He has the same eyes as his mother, and they shine with his energetic movements.

“Fetch some clean towels for these herders.”

“Yes, mama.”

Maris reemerges moments later with an armful of fluffy towels, followed by a younger girl with elaborate braids. Din and Druil accept the towels with thanks. The boy scampers to the kitchen to grab plates and other utensils while the girl stays close to her mother, clinging to the end of her robe and nibbling on a thumb. 

Din vigorously rubs at his dripping hair and neck with a towel, folding it neatly when he’s done. The woman in the robe nudges the girl, who steps forward shyly with her arms outstretched. Her face radiates more cheerfulness than the glimmering fire, and Djarin’s frozen face melts into a rare smile. He hasn’t been around younglings in so long...

“Thank you,” Din says as he hands her the towels. She bows her head demurely and runs off.

The woman suggests that they sit, and her son brings them hot cups of caf. For a moment, listening to the rain pelt the roof outside, sipping his warm drink, Din yearns for this kind of a life. As his sight drifts around the cosy space, he imagines himself stirring the cooking pot, Cara Dune sipping caf at the table, and Greef Karga with Grogu in his lap, playing on the living room floor.

The vision vanishes like a found ghost when the woman sits with them, nursing her own cup of caf. “My name is Asha. These are my children--Maris and Miranna.”

Din introduces himself and Druil, mentioning that his friend doesn’t speak basic.

“You do an apt job as a translator,” she says.

Din shrugs. “I know a few languages.”

“You must be a traveler,” Asha says knowingly. “I envy you. Eadu has been home for most of my life…”

Druil signals a question that Din speaks aloud. “Are you and your children here by yourselves?”

At that, Asha’s eye turns, downcast. She clutches the silver chain around her neck and opens a locket on the necklace to show them the picture inside. Din and Druil simultaneously lean forward to spy the face of man not dissimilar to Djarin’s appearance--revealing a wide smile that Maris and Miranna inherited.

“This was my husband. He was a herder too, like you both. I haven’t seen him for two years.”

Din exchanges glances with the Vindalian. Druil shakes his head--he hasn’t seen this man before. Djarin has heard stories about the dangers of herding--Eadu’s ecosystem is volatile enough. There have been men caught in flash floods and mudslides, men who have died of exposure or an accidental fall off the many rocky ledges they navigate on a regular basis.

Asha examines the picture again before tenderly closing the locket and slipping it underneath her robe. Perhaps because the younglings had skipped to another room, she says under her breath, “I’m sure something happened to him out there. He is…” She falters and begins again. “He _wasn’t_ the type of man who would have left and forgotten his family.”

The grief in the small house settles like mist into its corners, but the children soon break the sadness by running into the living room in a whirl of shrieking laughter. Their happiness is infectious, and Asha serves a hearty soup and freshly baked bread while Maris and Miranna speak about anything and everything on their minds. Din struggles to keep up with them and translate everything for Druil, but the Vindalian just chuckles with his effort. Djarin feels happier than he has in months--to have a sturdy roof over his head and to delight in the company of others. 

After supper, Druil takes out his small knife and begins whittling a piece of wood into some kind of contraption. Maris is mesmerized by his work. When Druil notices the youngling’s interest, he digs in a jacket pocket and pulls out two completed carvings-- a doll for Miranna and what looks like a tauntaun for Maris. The younglings gape at the toys with wide open mouths, thank Druil, and dash off, giggling. 

Asha shows gratitude to the Vindalian as well and asks if he has children.

_I have four_ , Druil signs and Din translates. Djarin’s surprise must have been obvious on his face because the Vindalian laughs again.

_You never asked where all the toys went,_ Druil signs. _They’re presents for my younglings. I send them carvings and as much credit as I can. My family is everything to me._

Djarin offers a small smile.

The evening passes with more stories and laughter, and the rain eases outside. Maris and Miranna eventually tire, and Asha puts them to bed, returning to talk with Din and Druil for another hour. She speaks of life with her husband, of her life before Eadu. But she mostly talks about odd occurrences: the electrical storm that scarred half her face, the year she never left her house, the wandering poet who stopped for a sandwich and inspired her to write her own verses.

It’s late when Djarin presses a hand to his mouth to prevent a yawn from escaping. He can’t remember the last time he yawned in front of someone other than Druil, and despite his tiredness, it’s still disconcerting to for others to be able to so easily view his weaknesses.

_We’ll sleep out here,_ Druil signs, gesturing to the living room area.

And that’s when they hear blaster fire.

All three of them crash to the floor. Glass shatters in one of the windows by the entrance. 

Din’s brain keeps repeating the thought: _They found me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is inspired by "Conagher," the western movie with Sam Elliott. Katharine Ross‘ character lives with her two children in an isolated cabin (her husband died). She writes poetry on scraps of paper and ties them to tumbleweeds. Conagher finds the messages while driving cattle and reads them. I liked the idea of these “messages in a bottle” and wanted to write my own "Mandalorian" spin on that plot piece. 
> 
> The title of this fic is taken from the song “I Wanna Get Better” by Bleachers.
> 
> Also, this fic is a super sloooow burn. Lots of whump eventually (and comfort too) but it takes a while to get there.
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and comments!


	3. Chapter 3

Whoever is after him could be anyone--Bo-Katan or those loyal to the Empire and miffed that he helped capture Moff Gideon. Ice settles into Djarin’s chest at the thought that he may have incited an attack on his herding partner and the lovely, lonely woman whose poetry has haunted his dreams.

Druil taps on his arm and centers him. The Vindalian crawls to his knapsack and removes his blaster. Meanwhile, Asha has also removed a blaster rifle from one of her kitchen cupboards. She glances out one of the demolished front windows, partially hidden by a curtain that flutters with the cold, incoming breeze.

“Raiders,” she mutters. “I’ve seen them before.”

Her deduction calms Djarin slightly. Raiders they should be able to handle. If it was the Nite Owls or the Empire...

Then Asha indicates the back room with a nod of her head. Her eyes flash concern.

_ The younglings. _

Din keeps low to the floor as fresh blaster fire strikes the wall close to his left shoulder. When he reaches the back room, he closes the door to find Maris and Miranna huddled together in a corner around a single lamplight.

“It’s all right,” he says softly with his palms face down and lowering, just like he used to soothe Grogu after a sudden attack. It’s uncanny how easy it is to pick up the skill again--taking care of children.

Miranna cries into her brother’s nightshirt. Though Maris remains silent, Din spies the fear in his wide eyes.

Din listens to the muffled shouts from the raiders outside and the sound of heavy boots circling the house. Luckily, there are no windows in this bedroom for the sake of the younglings’s safety, but it’s difficult to gauge how many attackers there are with the lack of visibility.

“Stay here,” he tells Maris, and the boy dips his head in assent.

Djarin closes the door behind him and weaves low into the living room. Asha and Druil remain in the same spots beside parallel windows.

“How many?” Din asks through clenched teeth, signing simultaneously to his partner.

Druil raises both hands.  _ Ten. At least. _

Raucous laughter fills the night, and a gruff voice calls, “We know you’re in there, woman! Just open up, and we’ll stop shootin’!” Din thinks:  _ He must be the leader. _

“I can give you all the food I own!” Asha shouts back, her words biting. “But I don’t have any money!”

“We’ll take some supper!” the leader responds. 

Another voice, not as loud, adds, “For a start!”

Snickers followed the comment, and Asha swears under her breath. Then she props the blaster rifle on her shoulder.

“We’ll see about that,” she says, almost to herself, and fires.

The night sky explodes with red lasers. Din dives behind Druil and blinks as the usually tranquil Vindalian exchanges shots with the raiders. He almost feels as helpless as he had back on Tython, with Grogu caught in the throes of some unknown Jedi communication system. 

He can’t draw attention to himself. If he wears the mantle of his old Covert, he is instantly recognizable, and he will draw many different groups who seek him from all the cracks and crevices of the galaxy. And when they find him, they might use him to find the child.

And Din would never be able to live with himself if that happens.

So Djarin helps by scoping out the situation and strategizing. Six raiders in three clusters stake out giant boulders set into the side of the hill, with the other four men placed sporadically. They’re going to be difficult to strike down without luck and precise targeting. As the firefight continues, the rain starts again, fat drops hammering on the roof, juxtaposing the synth staccato of the blasters. Din hopes that the rain and Asha’s rifle will be enough deterrents to drive the raiders away. Even so, his gaze keeps wandering to his knapsack and the armor hidden within.

“Din!” Asha’s call snaps him back to the present. “I need more ammo!” She points to a kitchen drawer.

Djarin scrambles and grabs more munitions for their hostess when he hears the cry. 

The Vindalian sprawls on the floor, clutching his arm. The blaster pistol falls from his grip.

“Druil!” Din cries. 

He tosses the cartridges to Asha and joins his friend on the wooden floor. A sharp slash and burn marrs Druil’s arm from where a raider’s laser cut flesh. Blood oozes from the angry wound, coating his russet fur. The Vindalian hisses through bared teeth, whiskers twitching.

_ Hold on _ , Djarin signs, not sure if he’s reassuring his friend or himself.

“Bandages are in the cupboard!” Asha shouts hastily, pointing behind herself again.

While Din fetches the bandages, he notices through fragments of window that the raiders have gained ground. Faced with less blaster resistance, they likely feel emboldened, slinking forward in clumps, staying low to the ground or hiding behind bushes.

Djarin dashes back to the Vindalian and begins applying pressure to his wound. Druil yelps at the contact, whiskers quivering. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Din soothes. Even though Druil doesn’t understand him, perhaps the Vindalian can discern the meaning from his tone of voice. His partner’s breaths even as Din finishes tying a swathe to the hurt, glancing out the window to check on the raiders’ progress.

Asha curses again as another window shatters and sprinkles glass upon them like sharp snowflakes. The folds from her grey robe flutter in the wind, and the flames dance in the hearth behind them.

“They’re getting closer!” she shouts, fear fused with fury in her voice. When she looks up at Din, part of her shawl lifts in the breeze, and he stares into both of her eyes at once. The desperation in her face finalizes his decision.

He helps Druil into a sitting position, propped up by the back of a chair, and then he whisks to his knapsack, pulling out the beskar armor he has not touched in nearly a year. Asha and Druil trade expressions of shock and watch, spellbound, as the usually reticent nerf herder attaches the pieces together effortlessly, securing the vambraces, pauldrons, knee pads, thigh and shin guards, and placing his helmet on last. Djarin always keeps the system fully charged in case of emergency, and it reboots right away.

Din Djarin stands, shifting his weight to double check the placement of his armor; it feels cool, solid, and comfortable. It feels like coming home.

He is the Mandalorian once more. 

Asha and Druil just stare at him, bewildered and maybe impressed.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says. In hindsight, he realizes it probably wasn't necessary to say anything at all.

Then the Mandalorian opens the front door of Asha’s house and steps outside.

Rain washes over him,  _ plinking _ on the beskar armor and sliding down. Djarin hears a cry of confusion, and he huffs. Maybe he made these attackers out to be worse than they really are. Maybe his presence alone will cause them to scatter. 

_ Maybe I’ll get lucky just this once. _

“We don’t have a quarrel with you, Mandalorian!” the ringleader shouts, although his voice quavers.

“But you do with a woman and her children?” Djarin calls back.

There is a pause. “We have no quarrel with you,” their leader echoes.

Din mutters under his breath, “Maybe  _ next _ time I’ll get lucky.” 

Blaster fire  _ pings _ off his armor, and he takes a step back with the force of the lasers before removing his own weapon from its holster and beginning to fire.

Djarin aims true and two raiders behind a nearby bush scream, sending smoke drifting from the wet foliage in a haze. Three others attack him from varying angles, and he lunges forward with his vibroblade. None of them wear protective gear of any kind, and it’s almost too easy to find a bare patch of skin or other vulnerable spot to stab.

_ Five down. _

All he can hear is rain, and all he can see is darkness. Din begins to make his way down the incline of the hill, and that’s when one of them jumps on him from behind. He falls on his side, grunting, as the man scrambles to steal his vibroblade. Another one leaps on top of his legs, pinning him down, aiming his blaster for Din’s now-exposed neck.

Twin lasers plunge into the men, and they fall onto him as dead weight. Djarin rolls their bodies off and picks himself up, nodding with thanks at the vague forms of Druil and Asha inside the house.

_ Three to go. _

Random cries alert him to their locations. In response, Din races down the hill and propels his grappling line toward flashes of color and movement through the blur of rainwater in his vision. He catches two and reels them in.

_ Fishing for foragers... _

Both are humans, and both emit high-pitched keening noises when the Mandalorian bends over them. They thrash and wriggle in their bonds.

“Stick around,” he says, as if they have a choice in the matter.

He sneaks down the rest of the hill, chasing phantom neon footprints from the heat register in his headset. Suddenly, blaster fire ricochets off his helmet, and the Mandalorian ducks behind a nearby boulder, scoping out the last raider. 

_ The leader… _

Three more lasers flare haphazardly-- _ on the run and shooting blind _ . The Mandalorian levels his own blaster and continues pursuit, following frantic footprints until they abruptly stop.

That’s when Din hears a shriek.

Before he has time to let loose another grappling line, he watches the leader fall off an unmarked cliffside and into the canyon below. The man’s rain gear shimmers in the downpour as he falls, but Djarin turns away before he hears the drop.

He trudges back up the hill and counts bodies on the way. Including the leader who fell and the two tied up, he counts eight.

Asha runs from the house when he waves an “all clear.” Druil follows close behind her, bracing his injured arm to his chest.

“Are you all right?” Asha asks breathlessly, clutching her rifle.

“Two got away,” Djarin responds, panting with the effort. Then he turns his attention to the tied-up raiders, shivering beneath him in the cold and wet. His eyes sting, but it’s not from his sweat or the rain. It’s because a part of him has been reawakened tonight, an identity brought back to life he won’t ignore any longer, a responsibility he can’t run away from. 

Din searches the rocky terrain, seeking life signs and movement with his rangefinder. If he leaves now, he can probably track down and find the two missing raiders. But what then? 

_ What advice did the Armorer give you...? _

“So you’re a Mandalorian,” Asha says.

Something hitches in Din’s chest, and he shakes his head. “I’m just borrowing the armor.”

“I see,” the woman says, but her tone is skeptical. The Vindalian and Mandalorian follow Asha back to her house. She immediately sets her rifle down to check on her children.

Once inside, Din begins removing his armor, one piece at a time. He shakes with adrenaline as he works. It's an unpleasant side effect of fighting that he hasn’t experienced for many months. Coupled with the conflicted views on his next course of action, Djarin has no patience for his own clumsiness. After unsuccessfully trying to unlatch one of his vambraces for the third time, he removes his helmet and kicks it with his boot, slumping against the wall. Din runs a hand across his face and sweat-matted hair and closes his eyes. He feels guilty for putting the beskar on again; despite what the Armorer told him, he still feels unworthy of its protection. On the other hand, he felt more comfortable within the beskar shell than he has in his own skin since shirking the Way of the Mandalore. With his heart still racing from the battle and chase, Djarin’s scrambled mind can’t reconcile these dueling emotions.

Din opens his eyes when he feels the unexpected touch of small hands on his wrists. To his surprise, Maris removes the vambraces without any trouble. A few feet behind him, Miranna picks up his discarded helmet and inspects it, putting it over her own head. Muffled giggling ensues.

In spite of all that has just occurred, Asha bustles around the kitchen, preparing more food. She smiles calmly at him, soothing.

“Rest a bit,” she says when she finishes. “The raiders outside aren’t going anywhere.”

Maris locates a broom, and Druil sweeps up the bits of broken glass until Asha gently tells him to sit down. She puts a fresh cup of caf in his hands, and Druil takes it gratefully, anxiously dividing his attention between Din and the two men tied up in the rain, illuminated by intermittent moonlight. 

_ It’s all right,  _ Din signs to him, hoping he will calm down.  _ How is your arm? _

_ I’ll live,  _ the Vindalian signs with a tired smile. Then his smile vanishes, and he signs:  _ Are  _ you  _ okay? _

Din stands and sits at the table beside Druil. They observe Maris and Miranna wordlessly pick up knocked-over furniture and sweep away the remaining bits of glass. While they clean, they keep eyeing Djarin’s gleaming armor like it’s a chest full of silver or sandwasps. 

The notion that Din has placed Asha’s family in danger due to his wearing that armor makes his stomach churn.

Suddenly, Djarin feels exhausted, which makes his next words even harder to form and sign. “I...can’t stay.” 

Asha picks up her rifle, inspecting it. “Explain.”

Din addresses Asha and Druil, signing and speaking at the same time. “There are many people searching for me. If any surviving raiders tell anyone about my armor, they’re going to come looking for me. And if I get caught, they… They might find my son. I have to go. The longer I stay, the more I endanger you.”

Silence falls upon the house, a gentle wind whistling through the broken windows. Maris and Miranna break the discomforting pause by running up to Din and wrapping their arms around him, squeezing him with thankful hugs. At first, Djarin isn’t sure what to do; he stands awkwardly, arms outstretched, little humans hanging onto him. Then he takes both of their hands, one at a time, and shakes them, smiling. 

Next, Druil touches his arm and signs to him:  _ I’ll take your prisoners to the nearest authorities.  _ He nods to the men outside. And  _ I’ll take care of the herd on my own. I won’t say a word about you to anyone. _

Din’s throat constricts as he grips Druil’s uninjured arm warmly, signing:  _ You helped me realize what is important to me--my family. Thank you for being a friend to me. _

The Vindalian’s whiskers bristle, and his ears droop. He smiles wryly and offers a short bow.

Asha has prepared a bundle of food and places it in Din’s hands after he changes into his rain gear and packs the rest of his armor into his knapsack, slinging it over his back.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. Her one visible eye moistens.

Djarin dips his head and is about to step outside when he turns around and draws close to her. He whispers into her ear: “I will never forget your kindness. You are not alone.”

With that, he sweeps out of the house and into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

The first time Cara Dune leaves Nevarro to find the Mandalorian, Greef Karga tells her that she will run into a dead end.

“There’s only one way that man’s gonna be found--and it will be because he  _ wants _ to be found,” Karga had said.

Cara can’t argue that Din Djarin is a person who does things on his own terms. Indeed, she agrees with his general philosophy of life and has tremendous respect for him. 

But it has been  _ months. _ And part of her cares for him as deeply as the family she lost on Alderaan. Din Djarin is a friend, and she refuses to let him disappear. The galaxy is a terrific place to get lost in, but Cara learned long ago that there’s a difference between getting lost and  _ losing yourself _ .

Cara remembers that day on Moff’s cruiser, how she had unknowingly held her breath in the anticipation of being able to catch a glimpse of him after he removed his helmet for the child. Then the Jedi left with the child and the droid, and everything happened so fast. Bo-Katan had screamed and lunged for the Mandalorian. As if reading each other’s minds, Cara and Fennec had raised their blasters and fired stunning shots before the Heiress even had time to blink.

Dune would never forget seeing Djarin’s face for the first time when he stiffly turned around. There were tracks of tears running down his cheeks, his brown eyes liquid, full of longing and loneliness.

_ Lost. _

That’s when it had started.

Cara wishes she could go back to that day and recall more details about his face, but she had been so focused on his kriffing  _ eyes _ . 

She tries to keep a low profile on her first intel mission. She keeps her trains of communication limited to other Republic officers and ex-Rebel fighters. But there have been few reports of a wayward Mandalorian and absolutely none with his particular style and color of beskar armor.

When she returns to Nevarro, Greef Karga asks her how it went.

“Dead end,” she replies.

But her failure doesn’t stop her from trying again. Cara Dune engages in numerous other intel missions, scoping out inconspicuous pockets of the galaxy in the hope that she will pick up some trace of her friend. Every planet she ventures to, she hears the same response from reliable sources: No Mandalorians here, and no Mandalorians with beskar.

Greef Karga’s words are ringing particularly true. Maybe Din Djarin doesn’t want to be found. So how can she unearth the ineffable protector of the Jedi foundling, the one-time Keeper of the Darksaber, a man who could have as many titles as he wants but doesn’t go by any of them?

Over a round (or several) of spotchka, Cara throws up her hands at Greef. 

“The guy sticks out like a dilated Dianoga wherever he goes! That armor never  _ fails _ to attract attention because it’s so awesome and...shiny!”

Karga gives her a dubious look. “So pretend you’re Mando, and you don’t  _ want _ to attract attention. What do you do? Whom do you become?”

Realization hits Cara like a blaster in the chest. “I take off my armor. And I become Din Djarin.”

The answer is so simple that Cara curses herself for not thinking of it sooner. She rushes out and hires a local artist to render an accurate image of Din’s face, but when the artist asks her various questions about his identifying features, she can only describe his eyes. 

Needless to say, Cara spends the next few days venting her rage in target practice and taking out her frustration on petty criminals in simultaneously hilarious and gruesome ways.

She’s angry because her investigation is at a standstill. Cara can count on one hand the number of people who saw Din’s real face that day on the cruiser: herself, Fennec, the Jedi, and the child. She knows without even asking that it would be nearly impossible to find the Jedi and the child, and Fennec’s current location remains equally mysterious. 

So Cara tries to forget about Din Djarin for the next several months.

Until Migs Mayfeld arrives in town.

She spots him at Jakmar’s Place at midday and reflexively reaches for her blaster. Mayfeld seems to have that effect on people, she surmises, as a gang of four Rodians bent on causing trouble saunter up to him. Mayfeld’s hand hovers over his own weapon, and Cara really wants to spare Jakmar the task of having to clean up splattered Rodian all over his establishment’s walls, so she intervenes.

“Mind if I join you?” she asks Mayfeld, making sure to flash her Republic badge.

The Rodians scatter like a blazer bomb has just been dropped, and Mayfeld relaxes in his chair and raises his glass to her. “Much obliged, sheriff.”

“Thought I told you once to get lost,” she says, taking a seat opposite him. “Never thought I’d see you here.”

“I was going to say the exact same thing,” Mayfeld says and sips his purplish drink.

The smalltalk inevitably winds around to their mutual friend, the Mandalorian. Cara casually asks the rogue if he knows Mando’s whereabouts, and he shakes his head. 

“I heard what went down with Moff Gideon,” Mayfeld says and finishes his drink. “The Empire’s probably got spies on every planet searching for him.”

Cara purses her lips and makes the decision to tell Mayfeld something she hasn’t told anyone except for Karga. Why she decides to trust this crook, she has no idea, but he proved himself capable on Morak, helping to obtain the intel they needed despite no guarantee of freedom from the Chop Fields. 

“I saw his face,” she says. “On the cruiser, he took his helmet off to say goodbye to his kid. And… I think he’s given up the Mandalorian Creed.”

Mayfeld looks impressed and swears under his breath. “That must have been a difficult choice for him. The guy looked like a claw fish out of water when _I_ saw him take his helmet off.”

Cara Dune’s heart flutters. She leans forward. “You saw his face too?”

Migs nods. “Yeah. Brown eyes. Brown hair.” He grins, all cheese. “Not as handsome as myself, but he was all right.” 

Cara stands, her hands holding onto her belt to hide the fact that they’re shaking. “I need a favor from you.”

Mayfeld chuckles. “Figures. But I owe you one for intervening a few minutes ago. What can I do?”

“Come with me,” Cara says and flashes a rare smile. “We’re going to commission a portrait.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet little chapter that I couldn't resist posting. :) Thank you for all the kudos and comments!


	5. Chapter 5

Din Djarin develops a sore throat and cough at some point on his way to the nearest village on Eadu. It doesn’t help that he hadn’t had to use his only spare tent in months, and it has conveniently gotten a tear in it, which allows rainwater to trickle (and sometimes pour) onto his abdomen in the middle of the night. Din doesn’t get much shut-eye in the next few days on the run. And he would have been lying to himself if he blamed his insomnia purely on living conditions. The truth is that he can’t stop thinking about Grogu. During those sleepless nights, he knows, deep down, that he’s more afraid of not being able to see the little womp rat again than getting caught by the Empire or anyone else. His renewed purpose of reuniting with his son becomes his mantra.

_ I will see him again. I will see him again. _

So he trudges on. Once in the herder’s village, he secures transport to Tattooine. Running on little sleep and hardly any food, Din hacks and sniffles his way through a miserable trip. By the time he reaches the desert planet, he alternates between coughing and clearing his throat. And when he finds his way to Hangar 3-5 in Mos Eisley, he wishes he had a cup of  _ shig _ . Despite the heat of the desert planet, a cup of familiar tisane would have done wonders for his throat.

Din hears Peli Motto squawking at her pit droids from outside the hangar. The sound of her grating voice is so strangely comforting to him that he stops midstep. Then he swallows on a sore throat and continues.

“What are you lookin’ at  _ me _ for? Am I the one in charge of polishing this scrap heap? Get a  _ move on _ !”

Motto is so ensconced in her work, and Din is so quiet, that she doesn’t see him approach. Her back to him, she continues barking orders to her DUM-series droids until they catch sight of Djarin and promptly collapse into themselves, neatly folding up and falling on the ground with a collective  _ thud _ .

“What in the two suns is going on here?” Peli yells, bewilderment plain in her voice until she turns around and spots him. “Oh. Hi there!” She waves and approaches him.

Din clears his throat, but his voice comes out raspier than usual. “I’m in need of a ship and thought you could help me.”

Motto freezes in her steps, as if she has run into a force field. “Do I know you?”

Din drags a sleeve across his forehead to wipe up excess perspiration. It’s not the high temperature of the planet or the onset of his cold that cause him to sweat. Having been within the sole company of Druil for so long, he has become more comfortable showing his true face, but this is only the second time a person who knows him from his old life is looking directly at him for more than a few seconds. The weight of the armor on his back suddenly calls to him; Djarin would almost do anything to stop Peli’s inquisitive gaze from studying his every movement.

He slowly shakes his head, avoiding eye contact instead. “I’m interested in any ships that are for sale.”

Peli glances at him one more time, clearly suspicious, and turns back to her crew. “Well, let’s get going! Are your processors malfunctioning? This is clearly a  _ man _ , not a  _ wampa _ . Get to work!”

The little droids skitter out of their shells and zip back to the less-than-stellar specimen currently in Motto’s hangar. The gunship has obviously seen better days.

“I’m the current owner of this little gem. Previous owner just dumped it on me, literally.”

_ Can’t imagine why,  _ Din thinks, ghosting a smile.

“Does it run?” he asks dryly.

“Does it  _ run _ ?” Peli repeats, guffawing and elbowing a piece of the ship back in place with a  _ clunk _ . “Like a dream! When my droids are finished working on this beauty, it’s gonna be the strongest workhorse in the galaxy.”

Djarin seriously doubts it, but he always trusted Motto’s common sense and the work ethic of her droids. If Peli says it will run, it’ll run.

He digs in a pocket and pulls out a handful of chips. “I have 8,000 credits. Is it enough?”

Peli’s eyes widen, but she transforms her initial delight into a scowl. “You know how it is nowadays--the cost for me to keep my droids powered up is astronomical.”

“Nine thousand,” Din says.

This makes the engineer pause. She scans him up and down again. This time, Din doesn’t avoid her gaze.

“I know that voice,” she says, her expression puzzled. “No, it can’t be…”

Exhaustion unexpectedly covers his eyelids like a thick glue. He wishes he didn’t have to play this game, but he’s too tired to worry about keeping his identity secret any longer. “What do you mean?”

“Straightforward manner and out-of-nowhere mysterious vibes. Plus, you scare my droids to death.” Her eyebrows lift. “What happened to your armor, Mando?”

The jig is up. Din sighs and heaves his knapsack from his shoulders, folding back the top flap, and allowing Peli to peek inside.

He says, “I am no longer a Mandalorian. My name is Din Djarin.”

“Well, I’ll be a Kowakian monkey-lizard…” Motto appears stunned. Then a smile lights up her face. She slaps Djarin on the back, ignoring the way he cringes at her unexpected contact, and she begins circling him, appraising him from head to toe.

“Not bad, not bad,” she teases. Some of her droids warble in response.

Din forces himself to not roll his eyes. “I’m glad you approve.”

“Thought you might have…” She trails off. “Let’s just say there were a lot of people asking questions about you. And the little green guy.”

“What kinds of people?” Din inquires. Thoughts of Dune and Karga flitter through his mind.

“Not anybody with an honest intention,” Motto says. Then she claps her hands together. “So you want this ship? Tell you what, you and I go way back--”

_ “Way back,” meaning about a year. _

“--so I’m gonna make you the sweetest deal. I’ll practically  _ give _ you this beauty for 10,000 credits if…”

Din frowns. “ _ If _ ?”

Peli grits her teeth. “...you agree to take a passenger on a quick jaunt.”

Djarin groans, which morphs into a cough, which causes his chest to crackle. He bends over, trying to catch his breath, eyes watering, and Motto whacks him on the back again. Surprisingly, her harsh gesture helps, and Din rights himself, gasping for air.

“You okay, Mando?”

This time, he  _ does _ roll his eyes. “My name is--”

“--Din. I heard you the first time. You just look a little pale.”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” he says, louder, “and I’m  _ not _ taking a passenger.”

“Hear me out!” Peli spreads her hands. “This is a no-egg situation. I  _ promise.” _

Djarin swallows, tiny nails skipping down his throat. He is starting to regret his decision to ask Motto for help. “Where are we going?”

“Ensolica,” a voice from behind him says.

Din whips around to a startling sight: a humanoid figure wearing a bulky dark grey suit with a bubble helmet. Thick gold gloves wrap around their hands, their black boots more suited to walks in deep space than sand dunes. Underneath the thick helmet, Djarin can just make out large sun-goggles which encase a pair of inquisitive sapphire eyes.

“My name is Eltani,” the Enso says with a musical voice and extends a puffy glove in greeting.

The former bounty-hunter takes it. “Din Djarin.”

“Eltani worked for Boba Fett these past few months,” the engineer adds. “They’re a famous scientist.”

Din’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Is that so?”

The Enso shakes their head and laughs, the sound of bells ringing. “Peli is generous. I am a botanist and acting consultant for hydroponics equipment on Tattooine--”

“And they play a mean game of sakresh!” Peli interjects. “Lost a few credits to them over the past week, I can tell ya.”

Djarin squares his jaw and thrusts more money into Motto's hands before coughing into a fist. “All right. Let’s go.”

Eltani’s eyes widen in surprise, and they rush back to Peli’s office, picking up a large metal drum with a handle and wheeling it toward the ship. 

Motto chuckles and pats Din on the back, much softer this time. “Nice doin’ business with you.”

“The name?” Djarin says as he thumbs Eltani toward the ship’s entrance. They plod inside with their big black boots.

“Eh?” Peli murmurs and yells at a droid to get out of the Enso’s way.

Din’s head is beginning to ache, and he rubs his temples. “The name of the ship.”

“Oh! It’s--um...” Motto squints her eyes shut, a sliver of pink tongue sticking out of her mouth, trying to remember. Then she snaps her fingers. “The  _ Bastatha Hammer. _ ”

“Great,” Din mumbles sarcastically. He will be sure to rename it the first chance he gets. When he walks toward the ship, some of the pit crew droids tremble and eye him warily, but they don't scramble away. As his boots touch the ramp, it wobbles, and Djarin wonders if this rust bucket will even make it as far as Ensolica.

Peli calls out before he disappears: “Where you headed after you drop them off?”

Din stops and turns around. “Nevarro.”

“You going to find the kid?”

Djarin nods. “Whatever it takes.”

Motto shoots him a wistful smile. “You bring that little rascal back here after you reunite. Sure would like to see both of you again.”

“I will,” Din says and means it. Then he steps onto his new ship, and the entrance doors slide shut after him.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Bastatha Hammer" is courtesy of an online Star Wars ship name generator. Those name generators make me LOL.


	6. Chapter 6

Bo-Katan Kryze is losing.

The Armorer lunges at her with the same beskar spear that Din Djarin once owned. Bo-Katan grunts and dodges, striking out with the sizzling Darksaber. The bamboo trees that surround them dance and swish in the breeze, as if cheering on the Armorer and taunting Bo-Katan.

The Armorer is more powerful than her and possibly more skilled. Any random resident of Corulag who happened to be passing by could have told her that. Despite the advantage of wielding the Darksaber, it’s only a matter of time before Kryze will fall. Nevertheless, Bo-Katan strikes out again and again, and the Armorer cooly rebukes each thrust, their weapons clashing together, producing sparks. Kryze feels the reverberations throughout her body; they make her teeth chatter.

Her arm aches after repeated blows from the beskar spear. She cries out with each motion and grits her teeth. 

_ How many minutes has it been?  _ she wonders.  _ Ten? Forty?  _ The bamboo forest contains a timeless quality, an ethereal deceptiveness of forever. 

The Armorer and Heiress continue their dance as Kryze slowly breaks down. And for what? This is what she wanted, after all. A duel. A fight to the death with a worthy opponent. Bo-Katan’s greatest fear, the fear of failing her people, morphs into a single exhausted desire: to let all this end.

With one particularly strong blow from the Armorer, Bo-Katan falls, sprawling on her backside. The Darksaber flies out of her hands, screeching from the separation, skidding across the smooth dirt clearing. Kryze rips her owlish helmet off, gulping air, sweat stinging her eyes.

She thinks of her sister, Satine. She thinks of her people, of Mandalore.

The Armorer stands before her with the beskar spear like a scepter, a tool to designate power or depose it. In a brief flash, Bo-Katan imagines that the Armorer is actually Din Djarin, now the rightful heir of her home world. His beskar helmet glints as he prepares to strike her down and assume his new title. 

The thought vanishes, replaced by resentment and frustration and tiredness. Bo-Katan scrambles on all fours and grabs the Darksaber. Then, quivering, she summons enough strength to kneel before the Armorer, holding the Darksaber as an offering. The bamboo trees flicker in response, green leaves whispering amongst themselves at this most recent development.

“I yield to you. The rule of the Mand’alor is yours.”

The Armorer tilts her head as if curious, cuirass not even heaving with exertion from the fight. She extends a gloved hand over the Darksaber the way someone might ascertain scalding bath water from its steam. Then she recoils, but the movement is so fluid that Kryze almost misses it. Instead of taking the renowned weapon, the Armorer walks back to her hut with her spear.

“Join me for some tea,” she says before disappearing inside.

Now alone, Bo-Katan’s heart hammers in her chest. She is tempted to flee, to run down the dirt road, back to where she came from--empty-handed and empty-headed. But she is no coward. Whatever awaits her in the hut cannot be as bad as what she just faced. Right?

_ Reset. _

Stiffly, she rises to her feet and picks up her discarded helmet. The Darksaber hums with her movement, ebbing and flowing with fuzzy, unpredictable energy that matches her mood. In the past few months, she has grown used to its perceptiveness, its intuitive nature, as if it was a living creature. She has also felt the weight of it as a curse, as a sign of her fate and failing leadership, and a time bomb. 

_ It doesn’t belong to me,  _ she thinks wistfully and immediately queries:  _ Does it really belong to anyone? _

She flicks off the Darksaber’s blade swiftly and attaches it to her utility belt. Then the Nite Owl wipes crumbs of dirt from her knee pads and follows the Armorer.

The hut is small yet comfortable. The Armorer bends over two handleless ceramic cups, pouring a piping hot brew that smells of citrus and jasmine. She gestures to a seat opposite her, and Bo-Katan  _ clunks _ into the wooden chair, setting her silver and blue helmet on the floor. The Heiress can’t hold back her irritation; she sighs heavily and runs her hands through her red hair. The strands are sticky and stringy, and Kryze can’t remember the last time she washed it. 

“I mean no disrespect,” Bo-Katan says once she has collected herself. She looks intently at the Armorer, staring through the bronze helmet right where her eyes might have been. “I just--”

“Drink,” says the Armorer.

Bo-Katan sighs again, impatient. She sips at the tea, steeping in its fragrance, its effect hypnotic. She closes her eyes for a moment, bringing the cup to her chest as she bows her head. When she opens her eyes again, Bo-Katan feels calmer, more centered.

But not ready to give up.

“Where is Din Djarin?” Kryze asks directly.

The Armorer lifts her helmet to sip from her cup. Bo-Katan catches a sliver of pale flesh along her neck before the helmet settles back down.

“You seem to be stuck,” the metalworker says. “You already asked me that question.”

“But you never answered it,” Bo-Katan says, fire still in her voice, though not as scorching as before. “Instead, you attacked me.”

“I fought you because you seek to kill one of my own.”

Bo-Katan sets her cup on the table. “But he’s not one of you anymore, right? He defied your Creed by showing his face.”

“You know little of the Way,” says the Armorer, not hiding the scorn in her tone.

“And you know little of me,” Bo-Katan shoots back. “I do not wish to harm him.”

“Just challenge him to a duel, resulting in his death or your own?”

Kryze’s fingers brush against the Darksaber's hilt at her hip. Its energy pulses even when its blade lies dormant. It calls to her, pushing her each day to find Djarin, to claim her birthright, to become the ruler of her people, to kill, to take, to destroy...

_ If only Moff Gideon would have fought with me for the saber. If only Din Djarin had not gotten involved. _

The Armorer takes another sip of her tea, demure. “The path you are on is one of destruction. Surely, you can see that.”

“How else am I supposed to lead my people?!” Bo-Katan says sharply, her voice cracking. “The destiny of the Darksaber is given to one who wins it in battle.”

“What about one who earns it through a good deed?”

Warm breeze from outside sweeps through the house, and curtains rustle. Bo-Katan remembers the child and the Mandalorian, how their unusual bond could signal a major change within the galaxy, perhaps a symbol of hope.

The Armorer continues. “You earned that Darksaber for assisting Din Djarin in finding his son and reuniting the foundling with his kind. If the sects of Mandalore refuse to  _ unite _ around you, then they are not fit to be _ ruled _ by you.”

Bo-Katan wants to believe what the Armorer says is true, that various Mandalorian factions will rally around her, regardless of how she reclaimed the Darksaber. Perhaps they can look past tradition in lieu of a more harmonious future. 

Bo-Katan is skeptical. Nevertheless, she says, “I think I understand.”

She will promise to act as ambassador and peacemaker if it helps her get closer to Din Djarin. And when she finds him, wherever he is, she will have to make her final decision as to what to do with him then.

_ I pray that he is still alive,  _ she thinks and downs the rest of her tea.  _ Or  _ I  _ will not be alive for much longer. _

The Armorer finishes her tea as well and begins to clear the table. “You may stay here as long as you like.” Then she pauses; her helmet shifts in the direction of Bo-Katan’s bare feet, bleeding and dirty.

Kryze crosses her legs and hides her feet beneath the table, blushing.

The Armorer sighs. “I’ll see if I can find some spare boots.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: I have not watched "The Clone Wars." Therefore, I might be a little off with Bo-Katan’s character. 
> 
> Din wants to give up his armor. The Armorer makes him tea.   
> Bo-Katan wants to give up the Darksaber. The Armorer makes her tea.   
> Coinkydink?
> 
> This chapter is an example of when my plot falls into a rut, but it’s a rut I love so much that I don’t mind. 
> 
> Cheers!


	7. Chapter 7

The soon-to-be-renamed _Bastatha Hammer_ is slower than a rolling cube and clunkier than a bag of plorkscrews, but it holds together.

It always takes time to get to know new machinery, to familiarize himself with controls, to get used to the flashing lights and invading sounds. The _Razor Crest_ had been with him for so long--Din almost forgot how much he misses it. As his hands work the new controls, Din actually feels a wave of nostalgia and freedom roll over him. It almost makes up for having to take on a passenger and temporarily halt his original purpose for obtaining the ship. 

Djarin holds his breath for the jump to warp, but everything goes smoothly. The Enso, still encased in their bulky suit, remains silent and sits stoically behind him. Djarin is a quiet man, but having lived for months with Druil, and the child before that, he’s also used to company, so he decides to engage his guest in conversation. 

“Do you breathe a different mix of air than the rest of us?” Din asks with what is definitely not a frown. Hopefully he’s at least approaching amiability. 

“This is a coolth suit,” Eltani replies. “My kind is suited for life in snow and ice, and our body temperatures are much lower than most humanoids’.” They pick at the front of the bulky bodice, partly fraying with clumpy threads. “This suit is old and not mine originally…” The Enso bites their lip, conflicting emotions fluttering across their pale face.

“What is it?” Djarin inquires, concerned.

Eltani lets out a breath. “There is something Peli Motto did not tell you.”

 _Here it comes._ Din braces himself. “Oh?”

“I was… kept against my will for many years on Tattooine under Bib Fortuna’s rule, until Boba Fett freed me. I was a botanist, yes, and grew much of the fresh fruits and vegetables at Fortuna’s palace, but I was imprisoned within the compound. Because of Boba Fett’s kindness, I will be able to see my family… They probably think I am dead.”

Djarin does not speak immediately. Eltani’s story has moved him, and perhaps it’s a mixture of exhaustion and his developing illness, but he turns in his seat to face the Enso. “I know Boba Fett. I’m happy to help you reunite with your family.”

Eltani nods and displays a small smile.

Time passes. Din monitors the controls, forces back a coughing attack with his fist, and rubs his eyes.

“Where are you from?” the Enso asks.

“Aq Vetina,” he says faintly.

“And where are you going after you drop me off?”

Din locks his jaw. “To reunite with my family too.”

Djarin coughs into his sleeve, his chest sputtering. Then something presses into his palm. When he examines his hand, eyes watering, he sees what looks like a handful of dried leaves.

“Chew those,” Eltani says, sliding back in their seat. “It helps to soothe the throat and undoes congestion.”

The former nerf herder’s gaze shifts from his palm to the Enso and finally tosses the leaves into his mouth. Although dried, the texture of the plant is just as chewy as it is flaky, like seaweed, but the flavor is clean and sharp. He washes it down with a swig of water from his canteen, and the minty aftertaste coats his throat. His sinuses open up almost immediately, and he can breathe more easily.

Astounded, Din says, “Thank you.”

Eltani nods and closes their eyes, leaning back in their passenger seat as much as possible within the coolth suit. Djarin copies their gestures, hours compounding hours since he last slept. He tries to stay alert despite his eyelids drooping.

“Mother, father, Aiku, Trench,” he mumbles and succumbs to sleep.

* * *

The cry wakes him before the blast.

Sparks fly, their afterimages streaking across his vision. The ship shudders, and Din jumps in his pilot’s seat. 

“We’re under attack!” Eltani screams, their usually bright voice turning shrill.

That much is obvious. The only question is _who_ is attacking them. Din silently prays it’s not the Empire.

A rowdy incoming call dismisses that idea right away.

“Prepare to be boarded, Mando!” Raucous laughter ensues from multiple voices. “I always wanted to say that!”

“Bounty hunters,” Din mutters under his breath and takes hold of the controls manually.

“You have a bounty on your head?” Eltani’s voice leaps an octave.

Djarin would have explained, but three successive blasts pummel the _Bastatha Hammer_ and rattle his teeth. A computerized voice from the control panel indicates imminent danger in an infuriatingly calm voice, and the ship lists to one side, more from damage than from Djarin’s maneuvers.

Luckily, they’re in range of a planet. It emerges as a giant in the view screen, wispy clouds covering green continents from space. 

“We have to land,” Din says gruffly. 

“Can’t you--”

“The ship is too damaged to last against the bounty hunters!”

Another wallop from their enemies thrashes Din to the side, and Eltani tumbles from their seat.

Djarin sweeps his hands across the controls and dives at a break-neck pace toward the planet.

“Hold on!”

Like riding a boulder down a cliff face, the _Bastatha Hammer_ plunges toward the planet, delving into its thermosphere. Din’s heart flutters in his chest as he dodges last-minute shots from the bounty hunter’s spacecraft, cutting through the stratosphere. 

Then the lights on his control panel go dark.

_Flying or falling?_

Din remembers hearing Eltani’s shriek harmonizing with his own as he applies his fists to the console, willing it to work. Dense jungle rushes up to meet them when the lights inside the ship blink back on. Djarin grips the crescent-shaped yoke and pulls up, straining his back and shoulders. The best he can hope for is a little cushion to break their descent.

The ship edges upward, but it’s too late to avoid crashing. Din hears something _crack_ before he feels a tremendous pressure on his side, and the tops of the trees below them suddenly swoop _above_ them, closing in like outstretched arms and blocking the sun.

* * *

The Grand Admiral sits behind a trim desk and examines a data pad containing the traditional architecture of the Kaminoans. Golden domes in the shape of rising moons dot his screen. His door _pings_.

“Come,” he says.

Ensign Sion enters, bowing curtly. Her eyes widen, shoulders straight. Even without a more thorough examination, the admiral can tell that Sion has news.

“Yes?” he asks without looking up from his work.

“We have traced the whereabouts of the Mandalorian, Din Djarin. He appears to be in the Outer Rim Territories along the Perlemian Trade Route.”

The Grand Admiral looks up at the mention of Moff Gideon’s downfall. He doesn’t approve of enemies of the Empire getting away without punishment. And Din Djarin’s crew had gotten away with the destruction of an entire fleet of dark troopers. An impressive feat, the admiral admits, but a foolish one.

“I see. Dispense a team to terminate the target.”

Sion nods sharply, her boots almost clicking together with eagerness. “Very good, sir.”

She is about to turn around and carry out her duties when the Admiral has a second thought, fleeting. “Wait.”

“Sir?” Sion looks genuinely curious. He loves seeing the combined passion and fear in new recruits’ eyes.

“Is anyone else chasing this Djarin?”

Her lips press together. “Several parties, sir.”

The Grand Admiral sets down his data pad. “Please specify.”

Sion tilts her head to remember. “A faction of Mandalorians, New Republic officers, a miscellaneous group of bounty hunters, and a handful of...Jedi.”

The Grand Admiral is tempted to say, _Oh, is that all?_ But he holds his tongue.

“Seems our enemy has made quite a few _other_ enemies recently. Capture and imprison him. A dead man makes for a poor bargaining chip.”

Ensign Sion bobs her head and says, “Yes, sir,” before departing.

Thrawn smiles as he picks up his data pad and reclines in his seat. Back to the dejarik game of controlling worlds within systems. 

Back to the art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that where Din and Eltani have crashed in the Outer Rim territories is further away than where they are headed (Ensolica, a Core World). I took some liberties with location and space travel and such. :) Thanks so much for the kudos and comments!


	8. Chapter 8

Din wakes up with his chest crackling. He curls inward, yet the forceful movement of the ensuing coughing attack causes his ribs to ache regardless. He tries to roll over, but his back hits the base of the pilot’s chair, and a spasm shivers up his spine. In the darkness, he reaches for something his hand brushes against before it rolls away. Grunting, he finds the small round ball from the controller on the  _ Razor Crest. _ The child’s toy.

My  _ child’s toy _

Smoke burns Djarin’s lungs, and he tastes iron on his tongue. He rubs a palm across his stinging nose, and it comes away wet with blood. Probably not broken. Probably. Djarin winces, his head throbbing, and his entire body sore, as if he has gone a few rounds with a rancor. 

_ At least nothing is on fire. That’s good, right? _

The ship might not be burning, but the environmental system is down. The air hangs humid around him, and sweat beads on his forehead. How long has he been out? What damage has been done?

He hopes the bounty hunters are gone, at least.

Carefully, Din pockets the metal bauble and tries to sit up. His ribs throb in protest, and he wraps a protective arm around them, propping himself into a sitting position. His vision fizzles, woozy with the motion, but he manages to take a few deep breaths. A slow and steady mindset,  _ sans _ panic, will get him to his feet. A slow and steady mindset will allow him to make repairs, to get moving again, to find Grogu... 

A moan from the darkness startles him.

“Eltani!”

Din scrambles to his feet, ignoring the pull on his ribs and the glaring sparkles in his vision as he slides beside the Enso, sprawled on the floor beneath the co-pilot’s seat, which has been violently uprooted during the crash. Djarin pulls the chair off Eltani and kneels beside them. At first, Din fears that his passenger has died. Then blue eyes pierce through the glass helmet. Their sun-goggles have fallen off in the turmoil and settle along their neck. Eltani clutches their side, and Djarin initially worries that they have broken ribs.

“Where are we?” Eltani rasps.

Din wipes sweat from his forehead. “Not sure,” he mutters. 

He stumbles to the control console and pushes a few buttons, still trying to figure out the new ship’s system. The view screen displays a lush, green forest. After a delay, the same computer voice responds with an answer in garbled Huttese: “You have arrived on the planet Felucia.”

“Felucia,” he echoes. “Jungle planet.” That explains the sweat pooling in his boots.

“Din…” The Enso’s voice grows fainter.

Djarin rushes back to Eltani’s side. “What’s wrong?” he asks, frowning.

“The...coolth suit…” Eltani removes their gloved hands, revealing a long gash in their grey protective gear. The hiss of cold air escaping kisses his fingertips, mirroring a trickle of sweat running down his back. Din’s stomach roils, and he swallows back panic.

_ So much for slow and steady. _

The botanist’s eyes flutter. “If it isn’t fixed soon, I’ll…”

Din stands abruptly, holding onto the side of the ship when his vision swims. Frantically, he sifts through the wreckage for his knapsack. When he finds it, he pulls out his cuirass and rushes back to the prone Enso.

He helps Eltani sit upright and places the cuirass around their body, making adjustments to accommodate the bulkier size of the suit and sealing it with some duratape from his knapsack. At some point during his work, Eltani’s eyes close, and Din works faster, sealing the rest of the gaps with duratape, knowing it isn’t completely airtight and fearing the worst. Once done, Djarin examines the rest of the Enso’s coolth suit, checking to make sure there aren’t any more holes.

“Eltani?” he whispers, voice cracking. 

The Enso’s eyes remain closed. Din places his ear against the cool beskar where their heart might be located, willing himself not to cough in the silence and listening for any escaping air.

“Are you a Mandalorian?”

Djarin startles so badly that he flings the duratape behind him. 

“Not any more,” he says with a groan. He studies Eltani’s face. Their angular cheeks glow, lips a light purple, but Din supposes those are good signs. The Enso’s eyes glint, and their voice sounds stronger.

“You saved my life,” Eltani states.

“After nearly killing you,” Din shoots back. 

The Enso says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Djarin replies.

He grits his teeth when he stands, holding his ribs again to stabilize them. He scopes out the damage in the control area, scrounging for tools and finally finding a handful of them. Eltani also points to their circular luggage, which includes several useful tools as well, aside from an antiquated hydroshovel. 

Din works for several hours, only stopping once when Eltani insists he sip water and chew some more of their medicinal leaves. Djarin washes the blood from his face in the still-working fresher and doesn’t bother looking at himself in the mirror. Examining his own face is an uncanny experience on the best of days. 

After he checks the controls again, warning lights blink, and Din sighs heavily.

“I have to go outside to scope out the rest of the damage and make repairs,” he says, waking Eltani from a light doze.

“Be careful,” Eltani says, still propped up on the floor.

Din purses his lips, not entirely convinced that Eltani has fully recovered from exposure and not wanting to risk leaving them alone.

“I’m fine,” the Enso reassures him. “I just need to rest a bit longer.”

Djarin grabs his bag of tools and blaster and exits the  _ Bastatha Hammer _ . If he thought the moisture in his newly-purchased spacecraft was intolerable, it’s nothing compared to the wall of mugginess that meets him as he steps outside. Trees with gigantic leaves bow to the forest floor, and a variety of shrubs and other plants dip and sway in a light breeze. Birdsong and other ambient sounds greet his ears, and Din tenses. After a few minutes of quietly listening, with no evidence of a dangerous beast or bounty hunter nearby, he begins to inspect the ship.

Mercifully, the devastation is superficial. The motivator is wonky, and the environmentals need to be reconfigured from the outside in, but it won’t take longer than a few more hours to repair.

_ Slow and steady,  _ Din reminds himself.

Djarin works nonstop. He coughs sporadically, but Eltani’s herbal remedy combined with the humid atmosphere of Felucia lessens the congestion in his sinuses. Even his stiff joints loosen, and his ribs stop smarting in the steamy environment that wraps around him like a blanket. 

Sunset paints the sky electric orange. Din clears brush from the back of the ship with a fallen tree branch in order to reach a specific section of the ship. In the dimming light, he cuts through a few dense bushes, and the ground suddenly  _ shimmers _ . Djarin steps back reflexively and notes the mixture of brownish-green arachnoids pouring out of the shrubbery around him. He must have damaged one of their hives while clearing the brush. Most of the arachnoids are small, but some of the larger ones are the size of his boots. Ever since encountering the ice spiders on Maldo Kreis, Din suspects unfamiliar insects. The last thing he wants is to precipitate an attack or an infestation on his ship. Even a ship so obnoxiously named as the  _ Bastatha Hammer. _

Once the creatures scuttle away, Din gets back to work, musing to himself.

_ Maybe I could call it the  _ Arc Flare. _ Or the _ Nova Blade. 

Din smirks. Maybe he’ll ask the kid what he thinks when he finds him.

If  _ I find him. _

Din contemplates what he will do when he finds Grogu. Maybe the child will choose to stay with the Jedi who saved them on Moff Gideon’s cruiser. In that case, Djarin would stay with Grogu, if it was allowed, if Grogu wanted him around. Or maybe...Grogu would see Din again and choose to go with him. They could board this ramshackle ship and go back to Tatooine, visit Peli Motto and Greef and Cara... 

Perhaps Djarin would have seen the creature scuttle above him on the ship if daylight hadn’t been fading or if his mind hadn’t been preoccupied with happier daydreams. But he doesn’t see the arachnoid, a straggler from the earlier group he’d displaced, until it’s too late.

A white hot spike jabs his upper arm. Din yelps in pain and automatically shoots the source of his agony with his blaster. The creature flies off the side of the ship, outer shell smoking before it even hits the ground. Djarin winces and shakes his right arm, feeling the initial heat from the creature’s sting begin to spread to his fingertips, like wax dripping from a candle through his veins.

Despite the shock of the attack, Din shrugs it off and continues working. He finishes most of the repairs when droplets of sweat sting his eyes. He absently rubs his forehead with his arm and hisses when he brushes the site of the creature’s sting. Din examines the wound more closely and curses at the inflamed, gaping hole in his arm. Alien tendrils of blue and green criss cross underneath his skin, now covering his entire hand and beginning to wind upward, toward his shoulder.

Tools fall from his numb fingers. When he bends to pick them up, Din almost tips over with a sudden rush of lightheadedness, so Djarin braces himself on the outside of the ship as his vision whirls. He tries to call out for help, but he only manages to mumble; his mouth won’t form coherent words. 

_ The ship. Eltani. _

Djarin attempts to put one foot in front of the other, but the icy paralysis that has overtaken his right hand now affects his right leg, and he clings to the ship to stay upright. His heart hums in his chest, beats tripping over themselves, skipping and doubling. The sunset illuminates the sky with brush strokes of crimson. It’s as if the forest is on fire.

Sirens wail in his mind. Djarin grabs his blaster with his left hand and fires three shots into the air. Shortly after, the blaster drops from his hand.

Light spirals flicker in Din’s vision as his heart continues to speed up and slow down, over and over until he’s nauseous.

Just before he passes out, a shadowy figure appears from behind a corner of the ship. He does not recognize the person, but he knows instinctively he can trust them.

They are wearing Mandalorian armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My inspiration for Eltani was a combination of David Bowie and Tilda Swinton. Thank you for all the fantastic kudos and comments!


	9. Chapter 9

Cara Dune’s boots squelch when she finds a table in the cantina. There has to be at least four inches of water inside them. Most of her outfit is waterproof and survived the rain on Eadu, but her hair is dripping wet, and a coldness seeps into her bones. She can’t help but sneer at the waiter who stops by, gruffly ordering a cup of caf, then feels guilty when he stammers an affirmative and briskly walks away.

_ It better be hot _ , she thinks, still grumpy and beginning to doubt ever visiting this dismal little planet. A few sources swore they saw someone who looked like Din hop on a transport to Eadu from Nevarro several months ago. Now she’s hoping to meet someone who saw Djarin after other reports surfaced of a Mandalorian single-handedly defeating a band of raiders.

When the caf arrives, Cara instantly brings the warm mug to her lips and closes her eyes, shivering with anticipation.

“Are you the one searching for the Mandalorian?”

Her eyes flash open. A Vindalian with a streak of silver running through his russet-colored fur stands before her. He wears bright crimson rain garb, and his whiskers twitch, his eyes peering at her inquisitively.

“Cara Dune,” she says, indicating a seat across from her. 

“Druil,” the Vindalian says and sits. “I’m a nerf herder.”

Cara suppresses a smile. Ninety-five percent of the workforce on Eadu are nerf-herders. But the Vindalian’s statement is so plain and sincere that she can’t be sarcastic.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” she says and takes a satisfying sip of her caf. Then she removes a scroll from a pouch slung across her shoulder and unfurls it, the corners damp with rain water. Druil leans over the paper, preening his whiskers.

It’s a rough black and white sketch, mostly going off Migs Mayfeld’s murky memory. After Migs described a general impression of Din Djarin’s face, Cara helped the artist draw out attributes from the thief that Mayfeld didn’t initially disclose-- lips, hair, ears, like a puzzle being constructed. Once the pieces came together, Cara was instantly taken back to Moff Gideon’s cruiser, the moment that the Mandalorian turned around and time stood still. Even examining the drawing upside down, Cara is still drawn to the eyes. It was the first thing the artist drew for the sketch because it was the only characteristic that both Mayfeld and Dune never forgot.

Judging from the close way Druil examines the photo, the Vindalian never forgot his eyes either.

The nerf herder takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, as if about to speak, when a raucous group of revelers barrels into the place. Cara’s hand hovers over the blaster she keeps with her at all times, but the rowdy group moves on, settling in the back of the establishment. Still, a tremor runs through the Vindalian.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says, standing. “I made a promise…”

The nerf herder doesn’t pontificate and, instead, begins to slink away.

Cara reaches out her hand, droplets of water shaking free from her dark hair. “Look, if you know anything, I would appreciate it.”

Druil pauses, ears flattening. “How do I know that I can trust you?”

Dune takes a deep breath and shows him her badge. “I’m an officer of the Republic. I want to help Din reunite with his son, and I need to find him before any bounty hunters, Death Watch fanatics, or the Empire gets to him… And I’m his friend.”

Druil hesitates, then sits down and folds his paw-like hands together. “I’m his friend too.”

* * *

Once they arrive on Tatooine, Cara Dune begs Greef Karga to stay a few extra days to dry out from the perpetual downpour that was Eadu, but it was a joke anyway. And as much as Cara would like to stay and soak up the suns, she’s itching to get going. She knows that the longer they stay, the farther the distance between her search party and the Mandalorian.

Peli’s eyebrows shoot up when she views the sketch poster that Cara hands her. Motto’s confirmation of Djarin’s appearance on Tatooine is a step in the right direction.

_ Ensolica. Just a few days ago. _

Peli Motto hollers at her as a bizarre way of saying goodbye. “And I thought that little  _ green guy _ was cute!”

Cara and Greef are about to exit the hangar and scrounge up something to eat before leaving the desert world, but a famous bounty hunter stands in their way.

Boba Fett, flanked by Fennec Shand, munches from a greasy cone of root chips and acknowledges the pair.

“Afternoon,” he says, bobbing his head nonchalantly. “Heard from Peli that you’d be dropping by.”

Cara exchanges a glance with Karga. She isn’t sure where this conversation is headed, so she keeps her voice even. “That’s right.”

“Heard you were looking for your friend, the Mandalorian,” Fett continues, still crunching on his snack. “With Mayfeld in tow.”

Dune nods. “Do you have information that could help us?”

A small smirk flickers across Boba Fett’s face. He looks knowingly at Fennec. “Mando did us a favor by transporting a good friend of ours back to their homeworld. We’re offering our services to make sure our friend arrives safely on Ensolica...and to help you find the Mandalorian.”

Cara can hardly believe her ears. With Boba Fett assisting them, they not only have access to two of the most ruthless fighters she’s ever worked with, but Fett’s ship as well. At the same time, she doesn’t know how much she can trust them. But her and Greef need all the help they can get.

Dune says, “We accept,” and holds out her hand.

“I’d shake on it,” Fett says languidly, “But I don’t want you to get grease on your trigger finger.”

“And why is that?” Greef inquires, eyebrow arching.

Another smirk plays across the bounty hunter’s face. “Bo-Katan’s lookin’ for you.”

* * *

The ex-shock trooper did  _ not _ expect a certain red-headed Nite Owl to show up in Mos Eisley.

Cara’s fingers hover over the blaster at her hip. Bo-Katan removes her helmet. The two face each other in the middle aisle of a crowded outdoor market, but it’s as if they are the only people in the entire city.

“Cara Dune--I’ve been searching half the galaxy for you.”

Cara half-smiles, half-sneers. “I’ll bet you have. By the way, that stun shot wasn’t personal.”

Bo-Katan steps forward, but Cara holds her ground. She eyes the Darksaber’s grip on the Heiress’ belt. 

“I know you’re searching for the Mandalorian,” Kryze says.

Cara shifts her weight from one foot to another impatiently. “If you have information, you might as well keep it to yourself. I’m not going to lead you right to him. He’s my friend.” The last detail doesn’t need to be said, but Cara wants to be as transparent as possible. 

Bo-Katan takes another cautious step forward. “I spoke with the Armorer. She...enlightened me on a few issues. Before, I was seeking the Mandalorian to challenge him. Now, I need his help.”

Cara hesitates. This information is unexpected, but it doesn’t change her response. “You have to understand that even if I wanted to, I can’t trust you. He means too much to me.”

The Republic officer’s eyesight blurs. Although Karga probably has a hunch about Cara Dune’s loyalty to the Mandalorian, she hasn’t told anyone else. It feels liberating to be honest now. They are  _ so close _ to finding him, after all.

Bo-Katan gestures to an empty tent nearby and walks toward it, dust wafting in the air with each boot step. Cara follows, a warm breeze billowing the white canvas, rippling its shadows on the sandy ground. In the sudden shade of the tent, Bo-Katan faces her, expression unreadable.

Cara stiffens, ready for a confrontation. “What do you want?”

Then Bo-Katan sets her owlish helmet on the ground and removes the Darksaber from her belt. She holds it in her hand, examining it as if trying to wrestle with some powerful energy within her. Then she swallows, straightens, and tosses the Darksaber into the sand at Cara’s feet.

Dune’s eyes widen, but she remains motionless and silent.

“I told you,” Kryze says quietly. “I need the Mandalorian’s help to unify my people. There are some factions who now see him as the rightful Mand’alor. First, I need his help to assuage their fears. After, I need his help with something much more important…”

Cara scoffs, gesturing to the saber’s grip. “That supposed to be for me?”

Kryze nods slowly. “I need someone to be its steward, someone impartial and not Mandalorian, until we can find Djarin.”

Cara bends down to examine the saber, and as soon as she gets close to it, her orientation shifts. As if an invisible magnet draws her to the weapon, something unseen entices her. She has experienced the fleeting sensation before but never as strong. 

When a person looks down from an incredible height and has the sudden, irrational urge to jump...

She hesitates, her hands frozen. She looks up at the Heiress. "What's in it for me?"

"I do everything in my power to help you find the Mandalorian," Bo-Katan says.

Dune scoops up the Darksaber. An electric spark pinches her hand when she touches it.

“It must remain hidden,” Kryze adds, letting out a breath she must have been holding.

“Done,” Cara says, slipping the saber into the pouch she carries. “But I still don’t trust you.”

Kryze pleads with her eyes because she would never beg out loud. “This is the only way to help my people.”

Cara sighs and fixes her jaw. Aside from Greef, she doesn't completely trust anyone in their party. Why stop now?

“So let’s go,” she says.

* * *

Din sits in the pilot’s chair on the  _ Razor Crest. _ For the life of him, he can’t remember where he’s headed, but stars flash past the viewscreen, showcasing a simultaneous stability and infinite possibility. He pushes a few buttons on the control panel, humming a tune that lacks a melody, then reclines in his seat. Whatever has just happened, he’s bone tired. Djarin lifts his hand to rub his eyes, but it smacks against a helmet.

He pauses.  _ His _ helmet. His beskar armor. He’s wearing his armor.

Of course. He always wears his armor. Doesn’t he?

Din brushes aside the thought and realizes that his tiredness is making him confused. It was foolish to fall asleep in his chair when he has a perfectly adequate cot to sleep on. So he ambles to the fresher and removes his armor one piece at a time. His joints move stiffly, but he isn’t sore. Taking the armor off reveals a coat of dirt or dried clay that runs up his arm and completely covers his right hand. Puzzled, Din washes the thick substance off, soothed by the cold water. But when he heads to his cot, another wave of exhaustion causes him to stumble, and his vision blurs. He shakes his head, and when his sight clears, he notices his cot. Then he spies two green pointy ears poking out of a small hammock above the cot.

_ Grogu… _

He starts forward, but as soon as Din advances to the cot, the short hallway on the  _ Razor Crest _ stretches, and the floor twists, bending left then right. Djarin winces as his stomach flip flops, and he presses his hands to the walls, trying to stabilize his footing.

The kid shifts further away from him, and panic grips Din’s chest.

“No…”

Djarin shuffles forward, trips, then picks himself up and continues on, but the hallway elongates even further until his cot jumps a mile, maybe two miles away, until it’s just a speck in the distance. His vision flickers, threatening to darken.

“I’m here,” he says, words coming out as garbled and tangled as his vision. “I’m going to find you!”

“Din…”

“KID!” he screams.

He jerks awake on the floor of the  _ Bastatha Hammer _ . Aches and chills run through him. His head burns, but his feet are ice. Something wet drips down one side of his face. After a few breathless moments, he realizes that Eltani’s puffy gloves are pressing gently, yet firmly, into his chest.

His heart pounds, and sweat slides down his back. Din closes his eyes, still dizzy. Part of him is thankful that the nightmare wasn’t real, but another part of him wishes that he was back on the  _ Razor Crest _ .

“Don’t sleep just yet.” Eltani’s insistent tone forces his eyes to open again. 

Djarin doesn’t trust his brain to form coherent words. Instead, he decides to take stock of their situation. Lights glow inside the ship, but the view screen remains black. His head lies propped on a pile of dirty clothes that Eltani must have found amongst his things, and he feels similarly to how he felt after being blasted by Moff Gideon on Nevarro. A large bandage wraps around his right arm, which still stings in stabbing waves.

It takes him a few more minutes to remember what happened.

“That creature…  _ stung _ me,” he croaks, clearing his throat.

“It was a viper kinrath,” Eltani says matter-of-factly. “Very poisonous. You almost died.”

The Enso stands to fetch something, returning to kneel beside him. 

Din swallows, a stale taste in his mouth. “Why...didn’t I?”

Eltani places an oversized glove behind his head, allowing him to partly sit up and take a drink of water from their canteen. It tastes cool and bland, with a slightly bitter aftertaste.

The Enso smiles behind their bubble helmet. “I’m a botanist, remember? After I dragged you inside the ship, I went into the jungle and found this…” They hold up a bundle of small clover-like plants. “Nysillin--good for healing. I made a poultice with them, and I added some to your water.” To demonstrate, they grab a few of the plants, rub them between their gloved palms, and place them in the canteen.

Din allows his head to sink back on his unclean laundry, sighing. “You shouldn’t have gone out alone. You could have been attacked by one of those….”

“Kinrath?” Eltani finishes then pats the beskar armor across their midsection. “With this? I’m practically indestructible.” The Enso inspects the bandage around his arm. “Besides, the fireflies kept me company and lit my way.”

Before Din can vent his frustration, Eltani makes him drink more water, and then more after that. They say that he’s dehydrated. Din doesn’t ask if Eltani is able to eat or drink water in the suit--maybe Ensos don’t require as many calories or have a slower metabolism due to their lower body temperature. 

He wants to engage the Enso in conversation, but his mind remains too muddled, and his eyelids droop with drowsiness. So he lies still, content in listening to Eltani speak of their home world, a beautiful planet covered in snow, their buildings fashioned from translucent material, entire cities constructed like glittering ice sculptures. 

Din is about to doze when he sees a radiant string of four lights, floating just outside the view screen. They hover, as if observing the two humanoids in the metal shell of the spaceship, then they fly away.

_ Mother, father, Aiku, Trench,  _ Din thinks fleetingly.

“I told you,” Eltani says. “Fireflies.”


End file.
